


Happy Endings

by passing-fanciful (kageygirl)



Series: Happy Endings [1]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Holidays
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-29
Updated: 2014-12-29
Packaged: 2018-03-04 05:00:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2953268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kageygirl/pseuds/passing-fanciful
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even sex shop owners can't get away from holiday merchandising.  Luckily for Emma, she gets an assist from one of her regulars.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Happy Endings

**Author's Note:**

> A late holiday present. Happy whatever. :D

"Apple cider."

Chin propped on her hand and elbow propped on her store counter, Emma shakes her head. "Never been a big fan of apples."

Killian glances up at her, and she shrugs--there's no story there, as far as she knows; she's just never liked them. 

He sets the little plastic bottle down on the counter, then pulls another one out of the cardboard shipping box, this one a tawny orange. He looks at the label, and says, "Pumpkin."

She frowns a little, shifting on her wooden stool. "I don't know--that seems more like Halloween or Thanksgiving than Christmas."

"Or as if you'd spilled an expensive latte on yourself. Which would do no favors for the mood," he says, and she snorts a laugh.

She folds her hands together and leans her forearms on the counter to peer into the box, but all she can see are the nondescript caps. He reaches his hand toward them again, but waits for her nod of agreement before retrieving another one.

His face does something complicated when he checks the flavor on the milky yellow bottle, smoothing down into a neutral mask--except for his eyes, shining as he watches her. "Eggnog."

"Eugh," she says, unable to suppress a bonus shudder at the thought of it, and he laughs, a warm, rich sound. "Seriously?"

"Indeed," he says, showing her the label before setting that bottle down next to the apple cider. "I daresay someone in their design department was off his or her game that day."

She picks up the bottle herself, staring at the disturbingly cheerful script. "They do know they're making lube, right?" She twists the bottle between her fingers, then sets it down quickly, grossed out all over again. "Because eggnog is _not_ a sexy flavor."

He chuckles, and she can't help but appreciate the cheeky grin peeking through his beard, the laugh lines around his eyes. He catches her staring just a little too long, and gives her an overly suggestive look in return, running his tongue along the inside of his bottom lip.

She's used to it, though--both in general, and from him in particular--and she rolls her eyes, shaking her head. She's an attractive woman, owner and operator of a sex shop, and shutting down a risqué overture is second nature to her.

She pokes through the box some more. One of her distributors sent it along--it's a sampler pack of holiday-themed edible body oil. Her natural inclination would be to gag and chuck it straight into the dumpster, but shit like that tends to sell surprisingly well; the only seasonal gimmick that makes more money is Valentine's Day. 

And while she might not have anyone to use any of this stuff with herself, she can't turn down a healthy profit margin, not after having lived hand-to-mouth as long as she did.

So she grabs a translucent pink bottle, turning it over to see the gaily striped label. "Peppermint." She purses her lips and shrugs. "Has potential."

She unscrews the cap to get at the safety seal, and he watches her, brushing the backs of his knuckles over his bearded chin. When she peels the foil circle off, the smell of peppermint fills the air, and without thinking, she licks a tiny smear of pink off the foil.

"God, sorry," she says, keeping her eyes down as she feels her cheeks heat up. "Bad habit. I can't be allowed in public."

"Good thing we're not in public, then," he says, and the rough timbre to his voice makes her look up. Now he's the one staring, and the heat in his eyes is enough to make a flush sweep over her own skin.

This isn't just flirting, or idle attraction--she can see genuine desire on his face, and she feels an answering tug, something restless and hungry in the pit of her stomach. She takes a deep breath, trying to quell that hunger, and can only watch as he leans in, ducking his head to put them at the same height.

She has a wild thought that he might kiss her--and a wilder thought that she might let him, throwing her policy of "no action on the premises" right out the window--but though she feels the weight of his gaze on her lips, he goes on to meet her eyes without making a move. "I regret to inform you, Swan," he says, in a breathy voice that burns right through her, "that you're going about this all wrong."

"Oh?" she says, which is about all she can come up with. She's frankly amazed that her voice is as even as it is.

"Aye, love," he says, and traces a fingertip around the cap on one of the sample bottles. "How can you make an informed decision without an… intimate knowledge of the product?"

She wets her lips, her mouth suddenly dry, and his eyes sharpen as he watches.

It's not that she hasn't considered it--she's had a few drinks with him before, and she enjoys the flirting, the tease and tug of it, but it's never gone further than that. Sex-shop owner and customer is kind of an odd relationship, anyway--she can speculate in some detail about his sex life without ever having gotten naked with him--but that's not what's kept her away.

The problem is, she _likes_ him--he's smart, he's funny, he's _very_ easy on the eyes. Her day brightens up any time he comes in--and if he's not the best customer in the world, it's only because he spends more time chatting with her than he does browsing the merchandise. And while Emma is more than capable of handling herself (so to speak), it's not the worst thing in the world having a guy hanging around the store to keep the weirdest of the creepers from getting ideas.

But there's got to be something wrong with him, because while he's definitely interested in the opposite sex--she's his porn purveyor, after all; she knows what he likes--the guy hasn't had a steady girlfriend in quite a while. He's more than hot enough to just be sleeping around, but, again, porn purveyor. She can just _tell_ someone's relationship status by their purchasing habits, and Killian, she's almost positive, has been flying solo.

She should lean back, pull away, break the moment. He'll let her, she knows; he won't push.

But it's the holiday season, and it's been a while, and--

And facing down the end of another year alone just isn't that appealing.

So she presses her lips together, takes a deep breath through her nose, and says, "What are you suggesting?"

It comes out a little throatier than she intended, but he clearly doesn't mind at all, not the way his eyes widen just a bit.

"I'm suggesting a taste test," he says, and she blinks a couple of times, because her imagination grabs hold of that and runs wild for a few seconds, and the images are _incredibly_ distracting. 

She clears her throat and says, "Well, that sounds kind of tame."

"Does it?" He smiles at her, his eyes glinting, and _shit_ , that's even more dangerous up close. "Because the only way to _really_ get an accurate assessment is to try them out as the manufacturer intends."

He reaches out and takes the peppermint bottle from her, fingers brushing deliberately against hers. Covering the mouth with the pad of his finger, he tips the bottle upside down, then rights it, leaving a fat pink drop behind. Keeping his eyes on hers, he brings his finger to his mouth, wiping the drop over his bottom lip and then lapping it away with his tongue.

Emma licks her own lips, and her unsteady breath leaves them cool and tingling. 

She sits back abruptly, and disappointment flashes over his face. "I'm free tomorrow night," she says, before she can second-guess herself any further, and he blinks, then breaks into a devilish grin. "Nine, your place?"

"I'd be delighted," he says, looking like he already is, and dear _god_ is he a menace when he smiles.

He writes his address down for her, though she's not sure how he manages it--he barely takes his eyes off her, looking like she didn't just make his Christmas, but also Hanukkah and Kwanzaa and, hell, fucking Arbor Day, too. When he slides the paper under her hand, he lets his fingers drift over hers again, and the warmth of his hand leaves the rest of her feeling cold and bereft.

"I'll see you then," he says, and his look of glee fades into something more serious, something that makes her breath catch in her throat. 

The bell hanging from the door rings, and he steps back as Emma straightens up, sliding her professional face back on. Killian gives her a nod and turns to leave then, though he looks back at her after he passes the new customer, and she catches something complicated in his expression.

Then the bell rings again, signaling his departure, and she works her magic to help the new guy pick out a Christmas present for his wife (no, sir, edible panties are probably more of a gift for _you_ than for her).

Emma Swan, sex savior, to the rescue.

* * *

"Swan," he says when he opens his door, softly and with a half-smile that looks like wonderment.

Suddenly the three hours she took getting ready seems completely worth it.

"Hi," she says, and looks him over--wow, okay, maybe she's not the only one who went to some effort tonight. His midnight-blue shirt sets off his eyes, and the vest manages to emphasize both his trim waist and that open vee of chest hair that she's had idle thoughts about more than once. She's just in a cable knit sweater and a dark pair of jeans, but she curled her hair and did her make-up and, apparently, he's liking the results.

She realizes they're both standing in the doorway eyeing each other up, and she looks down, breaking the moment and trying to hide the blush on her cheeks. "Uh, mind if I come in?"

"Of course," he says, shaking his head. He ushers her inside, his hand a gentle weight at the small of her back. "May I take your coat?"

_Polite bastard_ , she thinks with chagrin--she knows that's just the way he _is_ , he holds doors and pulls out barstools, too, the whole nine yards--but it's going to play hell on her tonight, she can just tell. But she turns her back to him to shrug out of her coat, juggling her bag from hand to hand as she slides out of her sleeves one at a time.

Then she gets an actual good look at his place, and it's…

… it's completely _him_. She hadn't had a clue what his place would look like, but seeing it, she can't imagine it would have been anything else--warm hardwoods and nautical decorations, the walls hung with sconces and seascapes and compass roses, a ship's wheel beside the fireplace.

It's nothing like her place, which suddenly seems stark and a little empty by comparison. She's not sentimental, never has been, but Killian's apartment seems… soothing. Comfortable, in a way that hers really… isn't.

"Nice place," she says, and he smiles a thank you to her.

She drifts toward the living room area, where there's a cozy fire going and two comfy-looking couches (leather, naturally) facing each other over a coffee table. She sets her bag on the coffee table, next to a bottle of thirty-year-old rum and two rocks glasses, and turns to give him a wry look. "Trying to get me drunk, Killian?"

He scratches the back of his neck, glancing over at her. "Just a bit of liquid courage, love."

She sits on one of the couches. "If I was going to back out, I just wouldn't have shown up."

He sinks down onto the other couch, his fingers fiddling with one of the rings he wears, eyes never leaving hers. "I never said you were the one who needed it." 

Oh.

She tucks her hair behind her ear, not quite able to hide a smile. "So liquor us up already, sailor," she says, and he gives her a quick little grin.

He pours them each a generous measure of the dark rum, then holds one of the glasses out to her. She takes it in one hand and covers his with her other hand, catching his eye when she does. "Get over here," she says, tugging lightly at his hand, and he stands, shifting past the coffee table and easing himself down next to her.

It's a show of confidence that she's not really feeling, but hey, fake it 'till you make it, right?

She wasn't kidding--she would have blown him off if she didn't want to go through with this--but he doesn't need to know how close she'd come to doing just that. She'd been in her bedroom, debating outfits with the intensity of a movie spy trying to decide which wire to cut on a nuclear bomb. She'd had to stop, and take a deep breath, and tell herself to chill the fuck out already.

It wasn't like Killian hadn't seen her in everyday clothes, pretty much all the time, so she didn't really _need_ to impress him.

But she'd _wanted_ to, she realized, and oh god, that's when the nerves had set in.

Seeing him like this, though--seeing that, for all his bravado, she's not the only one who's a little wary--it helps. She makes herself lean back a little and let her knee rest against his--he's warm, warmer than the fireplace, and the glow in his eyes is kindling heat in other parts of her body. 

She takes a sip of her drink--just a sip, because she's not looking to get wasted, no matter how much that might help with her nerves--and her eyes go wide. "Wow," she says, and leans forward to get a better look at the bottle.

"I take it to mean you find it an acceptable palate cleanser?"

_Understatement_. "Maybe I should look for more in a bottle of rum than just a pirate on the label," she says, and he chuckles beside her.

"Well, I suppose it depends on the pirate," he says, and she looks up to see him raising his eyebrows at her. "I quite fancy that Lady Blackheart."

She rolls her eyes at him, then sets her glass down and reaches for her bag. "Speaking of palate cleansers," she says, and pulls out a black plastic store bag. "I left the really disgusting ones behind," she says over her shoulder, and empties the sample bottles onto the coffee table in a cascade of tiny thumps. 

It reminds her, abruptly, of what she'd doing here, and she finds herself unable to turn back to look at him. Instead, she stares at the bottles, the colors shifting as the fire flickers behind them. 

"Hey," he says gently, and strokes the back of his finger over the back of her hand. "This doesn't have to be anything more than a drink between friends, Swan."

She does turn to look at him then--the firelight picking out the red in his beard and the old scar on his cheek--and is abruptly sick of letting her own shit get in the way of things she _wants_. So she grabs one of the bottles at random, holding it out to him by two fingers, and says, "If you're saying you're not up for it…"

He considers her for a second, then he raises his chin and gives her a look of airy challenge. "Oh, I'm _up_ for anything you are, darling," and takes the bottle from her, trailing his fingers over hers. 

Just like that, the heat is back, and she shifts sideways to face him better, giving in to the urge to rub her thighs together as she does so.

He cracks the cap and peels off the seal, offering it to her with a suggestive grin. She takes it, and watches his face this time as she licks it delicately, enjoying the way his eyes darken.

"Not bad," she says, and glances down--Spiced Orange, says the label.

"And yet, you're still missing the intended effect," he says, voice a little rough. He reaches out and takes her wrist, sliding the cuff of her sweater up to expose her pulse point. His blunt nails drag oh-so-gently over her skin, just shy of tickling. Keeping her wrist cradled in one hand, he carefully pours a few drops of the oil onto her skin, then sets the bottle aside, and draws measured circles with his thumb, the oil glistening in the firelight, her skin burning under his touch. 

The smell of oranges wafts up to her as it warms, and she looks up to find that he's slid a lot closer while she was distracted. She sucks in a sharp breath, and he winks at her. 

Then he lowers his mouth to her wrist, his beard pricking at her skin, and gives her wrist an open-mouthed kiss, then another. His lips are even softer than she'd imagined, and when he swipes his tongue over her tattoo, she can't suppress the shiver that runs through her.

"All right there, Swan?" he murmurs, glancing up at her from under his brows. The fire casts shadows that make his eyes dark and provocative.

"Never better," she says. She's aiming for breezy but lands closer to breathless, and he smirks at her, his breath fluttering over her forearm.

She sets three fingers against his collarbone and gently pushes him back. "My turn," she says, with a little more control to her voice, and she grabs another bottle, checking the flavor. Sugar Cookie. It'll do.

He slouches against the corner of the couch, watching her, somehow lazy and dangerous at the same time, like a lounging tiger. The urge to up the ante hits her, and she goes with it. "That's a nice shirt," she says, letting her eyes linger on the hollow of his throat. "I wouldn't want to spill anything on it."

"Very considerate of you," he murmurs, and he slips open the buttons on his vest, and then his shirt, without looking; his gaze is fixed on her the entire time. He sits up long enough to shrug out of both, and tosses them onto the other couch.

His bare chest is nicely toned, and she gives him an appreciative once-over as she breaks open the bottle.

Then she plants one knee and kneels up to get closer to him. As she sinks into the cushion, she sways, and sets her hand on his thigh for balance. His muscles flex under her palm, and his throat moves as he swallows.

She drags the lip of the bottle under the line of his jaw, brushing through the scruff of his beard, and then tips it just before drawing even with his ear, letting a rivulet of oil dribble down his neck, over his collarbone and into the dark whorls of hair.

Then she leans in to chase it back up with her tongue, tasting sweet vanilla and clean skin and laundry detergent on him. He groans and gently cups her hair as she moves up his neck, jerking when she nips at his pulse, and his other hand is behind her thigh, urging her to straddle his. She does, and rests her hand on his chest instead, feeling his heart pounding against her palm.

So intent is she on her work that he takes her by surprise, turning his head and catching her lips with his. He tastes faintly of orange and kisses her like he was made to do nothing else, his hand warm on her lower back where it's slipped under her sweater. One of them moans, and she's honestly not sure who; greedy desire is clawing at her throat, stealing her breath, and she pants as she breaks away, her nose still brushing his--she _cannot_ make herself back off any farther.

"That was…" she breathes.

"Sweet," he finishes, the corners of his mouth twitching towards a smile. "Very sweet." He's staring at her lips like he can't wait to dive back in, his breathing no less ragged than hers, and when he licks his lips, she feels that same pull.

Instead, she leans back, reaching for the coffee table, and his hand tightens on her waist to keep her from falling. She snags another bottle at random, pressing it into his hand when she's upright again. "Keep going," she says, and grabs the hem of her sweater, pulling it over her head to give herself a minute where she can't see his face.

Emma's mind is whirling--part of her wants to dispense with the pretext, just climb into his lap and ride him until they're both sweat-slicked and gasping, but that could get real personal, real fast. Having some distance is good--it means no one gets any ideas that they shouldn't.

She's never tried the friends-with-benefits thing before (are they even _friends_?), so she doesn't know if it's supposed to be like this. Her one-night-stands have always been about scratching the itch and moving on, but this, this is just so…

Clamping down on that thought, she tosses her sweater after his shirt, shaking her hair back from her face and arching her back a little for good measure. His expression is gratifyingly avid, though he spends less time checking out her breasts than she'd expected. "Beautiful," he says, brushing his fingers along her cheek, tucking her hair back behind her ear.

_Get with the program_ , she thinks, and lets herself sway into him, rubbing herself over the hard ridge of his erection. He sucks in a quick breath, his eyes dilating.

Then he gathers up her hair, draping it all behind her shoulders, and smears a pink slick of something tart-smelling just above the edges of her bra. This time, his mouth is hungrier, his tongue laving her in broad, possessive sweeps, and she hurries to fumble her bra off, because _oh god_ she wants more of that.

He rewards her by circling her nipple with oil-slick fingers, and she bites her lip; when his mouth follows, she gasps, one hand finding purchase on his shoulder, one in his hair. When he repeats the performance, giving her other nipple equal time, she can't help but grind down on him. Arousal throbs between her legs, and she's desperate for more, more friction, more of his mouth, more of _him_.

He shifts then, turning her and tipping her back to lie on the sofa. "Take these off," he whispers hoarsely, tugging at the pocket of her jeans. She is _so_ on board with that plan, losing her boots and stripping off her underwear at the same time, lifting her hips so he can help her get them off.

He splays a warm hand below her navel, leaning in to mouth a path down her body, dropping kisses over her moles (she has _never_ been so glad to have a fair complexion). Sliding his hand down to her thigh, he glances up at her, all messy hair and burning eyes, and she nods, a little jerky with need.

He presses her thigh open, and then slips oily fingers through her already slick folds, watching as she shudders, as her chest heaves, as she pushes back into his touch. Then he coaxes her knee to bend, pulling her foot over his shoulder, and buries his mouth between her legs.

Emma tries and fails to choke down a moan, curling her fingernails into the leather of the couch.

Killian's the kind of considerate asshole who would ordinarily take it slow, she suspects, but she's so wound up that in no time at all she's writhing against his face, breathing out obscenities. He brings her to a shuddering climax that leaves her feeling wrung out and floaty all at once.

She opens her eyes to find him grinning at her, chin resting on her thigh, his beard glistening around his mouth. 

"Not bad," she rasps out, and his grin widens further. "C'mere," she says, gesturing him up, because she's too boneless to move yet. 

He pushes himself off the couch--god, those _arms_ \--and kneels on the floor beside her. She rolls onto one elbow and snakes a hand behind his head, dragging him in for a dirty kiss. She tastes herself on his lips, and the hand he runs down her ribs and over her hip leaves deliciously warm aftershocks in its wake.

Once she can feel her legs again (god _damn_ , seriously), she scoots herself up against the armrest. "Your turn," she says, curling her fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck. She points her chin toward the open space on the sofa, and he stands up gingerly, his erection visible under his pants.

"Off," she says, nodding to his pants, and turns to sort through the mess on the table. He chuckles beside her as he undresses.

"So commanding," he says, and then, just beside her ear, "It suits you, love."

She turns to say something back--she's not sure what, but it was going to be good--except that he's naked, and she's staring, and every word she's ever learned has flown out of her head, except for _wow_ and _yeah_. He's toned all over, dusted with dark hair, and his jutting erection sends a tug of want through her, even as she's still basking in her afterglow. 

She shakes her head and points to the sofa. "Sit."

He pauses, giving her an arch look, and then settles on the sofa, lounging like he's in a fucking photoshoot for a subscription Web site.

She rolls her eyes, and then turns fully to him, two bottles in her hand, already opened. Deliberately, she sets her empty hand on his calf, and then runs it slowly up his leg, enjoying the crinkle of hair under her palm almost as much as the way he's watching her, with an odd mix of sharp anticipation and indolent amusement. She leans in and breathes hot across his cock, watching it bob in response, watching him swallow hard.

She surveys her canvas--his lower abs, nicely defined but not in a "psychotic gym rat" kind of way--and then pours out a measure of oil from one bottle and slightly less from the second. She sets them on the floor, and then swirls her finger through the mess, mixing it well.

"What are you doing?" he asks, his voice low and a little hoarse.

She pops her finger into her mouth, tasting the combination, watching him lick his own lips in response. "Spicing things up," she says, dipping her fingers into the mix.

Then she reaches down and strokes his cock, coating him in the oil, and he gives her a terse grunt, shifting his hips at her touch.

She twists her hand over him a few more times--just being thorough, not at all because of the noises he makes--and then takes the head into her mouth, swirling her tongue around the tip. Hot Chocolate and Warm Cinnamon, but it doesn't hold a candle to the satisfying way he groans, deep and broken, or the way he presses his empty fist into his own thigh hard enough to leave his skin pale.

She's tempted to make it last, to draw that performance out as long as possible, but she remembers her own desperation, and she takes pity on him, using a good firm grip and the wet heat of her mouth to bring him right to the edge. His hand comes up--she'd been half-expecting it, that he'd do the typical guy thing, that he'd pull her hair and control her head--but he doesn't, just cradles her hair so gently that she barely feels pressure on her scalp. "Emma," he breathes a little desperately, a polite warning, but she just sucks harder, and swallows when he comes, his hand shaking against her.

She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and watches his eyes flutter open (god, those eyelashes are so unfair). Now his hand does tighten in her hair, and he surges upright to kiss her, languid and unhurried, until he's grinning into it and she has to lean away to look at him.

"What?" she asks, but she can't keep an answering smile away from her face.

He cups her jaw, thumb brushing over her chin, then her lips. "I'd call that a successful experiment," he says, eyes shining.

She scoffs at him. "Are you actually saying 'I told you so'?"

"Not at all," he says, still pleased, but with something in his eyes that she can't quite place. "I'm saying that I enjoyed myself immensely."

She shrugs. "I've had worse times," she says, and he chuckles.

He glances down at himself, at what's left of the oil slick on his stomach. "I'm going to need a shower, I think," he says, and looks up at her. "As are you, love." He peels away a lock of hair that's stuck to the skin of her upper chest, then twirls it around his finger. "Wouldn't want to get anything on your clothing."

He coaxes her into the shower with him, where soapy hands rove freely and he fingers her while she jacks him off, until they're both gasping through the aftershocks in the steamy air and leaning heavily on the tiled wall. He wraps her in a giant fluffy towel and pulls her into bed with him, and though she'll never admit it, she doesn't really put up a fight.

Emma never stays the night.

But he's warm and he's got a good mattress and a decent thread count, and maybe this is just another new thing for her to try out. Just this once.

She falls asleep with his hand curved over her hip and his nose tucked into her damp hair, and she doesn't hate it.

* * *

She wakes early, with the sun peeking through a crack in the blinds, to a tousled head of dark hair and a mild existential crisis.

She's not the person who does--this. She doesn't do mornings after, she doesn't do _cuddling_ , she doesn't do _guys_ she has any chance of seeing again.

But she's staring at his face--slack with sleep and free of innuendo, yet still so pretty she wants to trace it with her fingers, or something equally insipid--and the thought of not seeing him around the shop any more just opens a pit in her stomach.

She's gotten over worse, though. She can get over this.

She tries to slip out of bed unnoticed, but the mattress dips, and he blinks awake, following her with those blue, blue eyes. She wanted to make a quiet exit before he woke up, but that idea's now shot.

She should go anyway. Tell him this was fun, but it's not going to happen again; leave him with a polite smile and a memory.

But that was the best sex she's had in her _life_ , and not for lack of comparison. That's got to be the reason why she pauses, the towel held loosely in front of her as a psychological crutch.

He knows.

She can tell by the way he's watching her--he knows what's going to happen, knows that she's going to shut him down and cut him out. She can tell by the way the ease has gone out of his body; he's bracing himself for the blow to fall.

And, dammit, she doesn't want him to know that about her. No, what she doesn't want is for that to be a _thing_ about her that's there for him to _know_.

She grips the towel harder (god, even his _towels_ are nice, what the hell) and says, quietly, her throat a little tight, "We should do this again sometime."

She wouldn't have thought he could go any more still, but he does, before breaking into a smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes and lights up his whole face. "I'd like nothing better," he says, with complete, unshakeable sincerity in his voice. (She can tell that he means it--she has a thing about lies.)

That sincerity threatens what little equilibrium she's got left. Before she does or says anything worse, she nods awkwardly, then turns and walks to the living room (letting him see her bare ass, 'cause it's not like he hasn't already). When she starts gathering her clothes, she realizes her bra's draped across the pile of sample bottles like an ad for debauchery, and the urge to laugh bubbles up inside her, the kind that won't stop once it starts. She rubs a hand over her face, hard, and then gets dressed; her hair's a mess, especially after she drags her turtleneck over it, but there's nothing she can do about that right now.

"Need a ride?" he says behind her, and she turns to see him in pants, his feet bare, shrugging on a button-down shirt.

"No, I'm good," she says, and after a brief war with her instincts--she's honestly not sure whether she wins or loses--she steps over and gives him a soft kiss, taking a moment before opening her eyes afterwards. "See you around, Killian," she murmurs, and heads for the door. It's not fair, doing something like that, something he might misinterpret, but she couldn't quite help herself.

The taste of him lingers on her lips long after she's left. It's distracting, and inconvenient, and yet, she's disappointed when it fades away.


End file.
